Shimazu poured whiskey for himself and John, expensive stuff, aged thirty years. He raised his glass.
"To success. May fortune favor the bold."
John lifted his own glass. "It will work out. I promise you that."
Footsteps on the stairs announced Akira's arrival. She stepped onto the rooftop terrace, her expression expectant. "Father, you wanted to, "
She saw John and froze. "What is he doing here?"
Shimazu stood, his voice firm but gentle. "Mr. Wick is our guest, Akira. Come."
"Father, no. You can't, "
"Akira." The single word carried weight. "Come here. Now."
She crossed the space reluctantly, her eyes never leaving John.
"Wick, this is my daughter, Akira." Shimazu's hand rested on her shoulder. "Akira, this is your Uncle Wick. An old friend."
Akira's jaw clenched, but she managed a stiff bow. "Uncle Wick."
John withdrew something from his jacket, a bullet, but unlike any standard ammunition. It was segmented into three parts, each section engraved with intricate patterns. An Fraternity marker.
He placed it on the table. "Koji, have Akira take this to Castle Williams on Governors Island. Someone will be waiting to receive her."
Shimazu picked up the bullet, studying it for a moment, then turned to his daughter. "Thank Uncle Wick for his generosity."
"Father." Akira's voice cracked slightly. "What are you planning?"
The fear was evident now. Shimazu was sending her away, which meant he intended to help John Wick. Which meant he was choosing sides against the High Table.
Shimazu's expression hardened. "This isn't a discussion, Akira. It's an order."
She flinched at his tone but nodded. "Yes, Father."
His face softened immediately. "Take the token and leave tonight. Don't delay."
Akira took the bullet, bowed to both men, and left without another word.
Fraternity Headquarters
Smith watched everything through his connection to the Dragon Balls, John's conversation with Shimazu, the exchange of the Five-Star Dragon Ball. He didn't particularly care about John recruiting allies, but Shimazu's daughter would be granted sanctuary. That much was simple courtesy.
As he observed, his awareness expanded beyond the Osaka Continental. Across the globe, the High Table was mobilizing. Remaining Elders dispatching their personal forces toward New York. Adjudicators visiting Continental Hotels worldwide, conscripting killers.
The counterattack was coming.
Fox knocked and entered without waiting for acknowledgment. "GOD. All wounded personnel have recovered. Which targets do we hit next?"
Smith drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking. "The Marquis's forces attacked us three days ago. If we deploy now, the headquarters will be vulnerable to a second strike."
"The High Table will retaliate soon. I know how they operate."
Fox nodded. "Should we recall all operatives from external cells? Fortify here while protecting our other locations?"
"No. Don't recall everyone." Smith's eyes were distant, calculating. "But protect the cells. Send our European operatives to concentrate near the Italian Mafia's holdings. They're our next target after we weather this storm."
"Once we've broken their counterattack, we'll eliminate three more Elders simultaneously. That will shatter them."
Fox processed this. "During the defensive period, how do we handle the Continental Hotels in various regions?"
"After we destroy the High Table?" Smith's smile was cold. "Send messages to every Continental. Close your doors and disband, or we'll do it for you. Their choice."
Fox left to execute the orders.
Smith headed for the training room. If he could just sense ki, truly feel and manipulate his body's energy, his combat power would spike dramatically. He needed that edge before the High Table's assault.
Osaka Continental – Back Garden
John left through the service entrance, Puar floating beside him as a cheerful blue balloon. The garden was quiet, lit by paper lanterns.
"John Wick."
The voice came from behind. John didn't turn, instead, he pulled his suit jacket up around his head and neck.
Crack-crack-crack.
Three bullets struck his back. The body armor absorbed the impacts, but the force still drove him forward. He tucked into a roll, coming up with his pistol drawn.
Bang-bang-bang.
His return fire chewed bark from the tree sheltering Mr. Nobody. The man pressed himself flat against the trunk.
John drew his backup piece with his left hand, adopting a modified Weaver stance. He fired methodically with his right hand, bang-bang-bang, each shot forcing the Hunter to stay hidden.
Mr. Nobody counted rounds. When he heard the click of an empty magazine, he leaned out and fired blind around the tree.
Bang-bang-bang.
John was already moving, using the scattered cover to close distance. He'd dropped the empty pistol and was working with his backup now.
"Kill!" the Hunter shouted.
The German Shepherd exploded from the bushes like a missile. Eighty pounds of trained muscle and teeth clamped onto John's right forearm, his shooting arm. The dog thrashed, dragging John backward, trying to ground him.
John hammered punches into the animal's skull with his left hand. The shepherd didn't release. These dogs were bred to hang onto bulls.
Mr. Nobody burst from cover, shotgun rising.
John fired three times point-blank into the shepherd's head with his left-hand pistol.
Bang-bang-bang.
The dog's skull exploded. The bite released. John yanked his arm free.
Mr. Nobody saw his companion die and screamed, raw grief and rage compressed into one inarticulate roar. He dropped his pistol, ripped the shotgun from his back harness, and charged.
BOOM.